


the Nice and Accurate First Experiences of Aziraphale: Angel of the Eastern Gate

by Sydmish



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale whump, Cuddling, Dancing, First Times, Kissing, M/M, Other, Slow Burn, Wings, except its already been 6000 years, hand holding, hes just touch starved, hurt aziraphale, if things get heated ill say it in the notes of the chapter, not actually, soft, this is all soft, wing fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-02 14:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20277178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sydmish/pseuds/Sydmish
Summary: Heaven, as much as it preaches love, is very sterile. Aziraphale had only had so much physical affection, and it was all limited to hand shakes and hands clasped congradulatorily on ones shoulder. Never before would he, nor could he, imagine holding someones hand or, god forbid, kissing them. It's not like he wanted to either, not when the only crop to choose from were angels like Gabriel.Hell, as much grief as it gets, is very open about physical contact given how crowded it is, and when Crowley lets himself accept feelings for a certain angel after they lose their respective sides, he realizes how much he craves the attention of said angel. It itches under his scales, but he's got to be patient. He wont risk going too fast.5 times Aziraphale experiences new and nerve-wrecking physical contact with one, Anthony J. Crowley, and 1 time that one Anthony J. Crowley experiences something new with Aziraphale.





	1. Holding Hands

First times are incorrigible, ineffable, and overall very intimidating. As they are ineffable (which is that they cannot be put into words) this whole story is rather redundant, and overall a waste of time, both as a reader, and as a writer. If you’re so determined as to sit through what will most likely take hours to write, however, I consider you both a fool, and an intellect, and in that I delight. 

See, fools are fools, they will read anything that is written, their palms will sweat and their heart will beat and (most often during a long story when lovers finally unite), they will scream. They will string together a group of unintelligible letters, and ungodly noises will escape their chests as they throw whatever they’re reading from across the room. You are a fool. Just as much as I am a fool.

And intellects are scary. Intellects will knitpick and overthink one sentence or one tiny move (for example, when one Mr. Anthony J. Crowley wore a tartan scarf under the collar of his blazer instead of his normal red one, because he was not, in fact, Mr. Anthony J. Crowley, and instead his loveable adversary: Aziraphale.) smart readers will pick up on small things like foreshadowing. They will predict and decide where your story will go even before you have decided for yourself. It is delightful, to not have to do the work, but also to have people pick up the effort that you’re putting down.

So, from this point forward, if you are not a fool, nor an intellect, I suggest you close the browser. I suggest you turn away, because this is a story of firsts, and firsts are ineffable. Which is to say, they cannot be put into words.

———————-

It was raining. The night of the apoconot, it had started to drizzle, and while the two entities did not need to feel the cold, they still did. One blond angel (and was he? Was he still an angel? He had felt might cocky in the face of his superiors, but that was ebbing away far too quickly) sat on a bus bench. A brave postman had just taken his sword, along with the other tools that the horsemen had used, and he felt bare. Never before had he wanted that sword, not once. So why, when he needed it least, did he crave it the most. 

Perhaps it was the looming threat of his side taking vengeance. Gabriel hadn’t been pleased with Aziraphale for averting the war, but why was war necessary? Why was death necessary when it came to ethereal and occult beings. they’d been living in (relative) coexistence for the past 6000 years, so why now, of all times, did the ball have to drop? Why did the ball ever have to drop? Were angels that thirsty for blood and sulphur?

“You’re thinking too loudly, dear.” And Aziraphle startled, because dear was his thing, and hearing it from Crowley, so somber and gentle, made his heart drop. It made his heart do things that he’s convinced, had he been human, would’ve required quite a prompt visit to an ER. 

“I’m sorry.” The angel managed, taught. He could feel Crowley shift on the bench beside him, and one bony knee knocked against his own.

“Don’t be. Just… stop it.” Blue eyes lifted and met shaded ones. He couldn’t see the mans eyes, but the expression the demon was giving him was beyond soft. It reminded him of the time he’d declined a lift from Crowley, back when he’d given him holy water. The gingers lips were taught in barely there frown, and his eyebrows were tensely raised. Pleading. That’s what he was doing. He was pleading.

Aziraphale sighed, and his gaze dropped to look at his shoes (scuffed, he’d have to get them polished when he got back to the bookshop), but he nodded. 

It was then that the bus tumbled around the corner, and just from the noise, Aziraphale looked up. “That bus says Oxford.” He stated simply

“It’ll go to London.”

“Oh, alright then.” It approached the duo and came to a rumbling stop. Aziraphale brushed off his lap, as if he’d been sitting there long enough that dust had settled, “I suppose I’ll have it drop me at my bookshop.” 

“Aziraphale,” And it dawned  
on the Angel before the mournful words left his partners (partner as in partner-in-crime. Not partner as in life-partner, or significant other.) mouth, and he grimaced, face contorting as though he’d just been pinched, right in his soul, “the bookshop burned down, remember?”

And then it really was like the night Aziraphale gave him the holy water, because Crowley was grasping for something to offer. “You can stay at mine, if you’d like.” 

The angel looked up, and he blinked because there hadn’t been two crowleys there a second ago, but now his vision was blurring and his chest felt tight as he levelled with the demon. “Oh come on now, don’t cry or I’ll have him drop you in a ditch somewhere, Angel.” Crowley threatened. It was achingly loving though, and a bony hand clenched into a fist on tight black jeans. Aziraphale could tell that the ginger was holding back from wiping his tears away, and a part of him whispered to himself that he wanted him to give into that urge. Still, despite the affectionate joust, Aziraphales face scrunched up and his lips drew back into a tight grimace. He looked away, blatantly away. The grassy patch over there was very interesting, he was just admiring it, that’s all.

Except his shoulders shook minutely, and a hand came up to drape over his face as he drew in a shaky breath. Tears hadn’t quite broken yet (‘Yet’ being the optimal word), but if the angel thought for a second longer about his angel wing mug, or his first edition Wildes, or the little cactus that Crowley brought over for him, they surely would. “I’m fine.” He lied, blatantly and tactlessly as he stood from the bench and his hand fell from his face, but he stayed sternly facing away from the man , “I’m fine, Crowley.”

“I know, angel.”

"Really, I am.” and if his voice cracked, his partner (still platonic), well, he had the decency not to say anything.

“I know.”

They were both lying, like utter buffoons, and with the grace that only two entities who had been tiptoeing around each other for 6 millennia could manage. 

Boarding the bus was solemn, it was quiet and, miracle or not, empty, save for the driver. Crowley led the duo, offering what little privacy he could for Aziraphale as the Angel recomposed himself behind him. What surprised the demon was that when he sat by a dirty window, he felt a warm body follow, settling beside him. 

“I… I haven’t a clue…” Aziraphale began breathlessly as the bus rattled to a start, pulling forward. “Surely they’ll come for us.”

“Surely.” Crowley agreed, looking out the window as the world passed them by. “There’s no doubt about that.”

“Well… I have this, but I don’t know what it’s to mean” Aziraphale reached into his overcoat (akin to that of a shady drug dealer), and looked around as if he may be spotted by an imaginary force around them. He pulled out a slip of paper and, in what he felt was a very non-chalant way, handed the paper over to crowley between his middle and pointer finger as he continued to look elsewhere.

Crowley scoffed.

He took the slip though, too tired to call the angel out on his unnecessary behaviour. The edges were burnt and the paper was old, but he flipped it over, and on the other side was olde English. ‘“Choose thy faces wisely.’” He echoed the last part of it out loud, brow furrowed as he scrunched his nose up, turning to Aziraphale incredulously, “what the bloody ‘ell is that even supposed to mean?”

“I just told you, I don’t know.” Hissed the blonde, snatching the paper back to shove into the same pocket on the inside of his coat, “it’s from that book- the one you saved from my shop.”

“The one about Agnes Nutter?”

“It’s not about Agnes Nutter”

“Well why’s her name on it, then?”

“She’s the author, dear-“

“I’ve seen a million books, none have the authors name in the title, seems a bit pretentious.”

“Lemony Snickets; a Series of Unfortunate events.”

“I thought you weren’t fond of modern fiction.”

“It has its moments dear, back to the prophecy.”

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his shaders, “prophecy. Humans have never been good with prophecy.” He hissed out, doubtful, turning back to the window.

“She’s different, Crowley.” Aziraphale insisted, turning to face his counterpart a bit more insistently, “she knew about  
everything. She knew about Adam, she knew where he lived, she knew that my hot cocoa would go cold while I was reading that exact book! That’s not coincidence, my dear boy!” He pleaded.

Should crowley look back to the angel, he would relent, and that’s why he stayed firmly planted, watching trees pass. “So what, then? How are we supposed to choose our faces when they’ll know it’s us?” He spat out.

“I… that’s the part that I need help with. Heaven and hell are coming for us, it doesn’t matter what we look like, they’ll find us, so I don’t know how she expects us to get away with things like  
that.” The blond thought out loud, sagging back against the bus seat in defeat. 

There was silence from both parties for a heavy moment, and then a small, scared “I don’t want to die, Crowley.”

an equally scared “i know, Aziraphale.”

and what that meant was ‘me too, angel.’

There was more silence then, and then warmth.

Aziraphale had been so distracted in worry that he hadn’t felt Crowley move, but he felt a boney (and warm, but in a clammy kind of way, as if he’d just been cold) hand ease over his own, which was clenched firmly in a fist on his lap.

He tensed, and Crowley paused as Aziraphale inhaled sharply, but the serpent didn’t pull away. Deft fingers carefully soothed tense ones open after a moment, and the demon laced their fingers together. Aziraphale was still as stiff as a brick building, and Crowley worried he’d pushed it too far. After six thousand years, he’d made the angel uncomfortable. He went to pull away with a sigh, but the larger hand just grabbed on, anchoring him in.

And while crowleys worry sank to his stomach and turned into pleasant abashedness as he turned back to the window, Aziraphales heart (which he didn’t need) beat at an ungodly pace. he hadn’t held anyone’s hand before. He’d shaken hands, but this was different. Intimate. Intimate in a completely innocent way. He was panicking. Surely. But then why didn’t he want Crowley to let go? He adjusted his grip, and the demon started rubbing soothing circles against his skin with his thumb.

Aziraphale promptly let out a quiet sob. His other hand lifted to his mouth and his eyes pinched shut, his brow furrowed and he cried.

He cried of relief. He cried of returned affection.

He cried of love.

And then he cried of grief.

————

Crowleys flat was empty. Not 'empty' empty, but empty enough that Aziraphale couldn’t feel anything in the place. And it was a place,  
not a home; but a place.

Crowley sauntered in, abandoning the angel on the threshold as he kicked off his shoes haphazardly and left them abandoned in the centre of what Aziraphale would call the living room if it weren’t so plain. The demon was grumbling something under his breath before speaking up, “a drink, Angel?”

“Multiple, please.” The blonde said with a small smile as he entered more thoroughly into the room. 

He found a desk, accompanied by a throne, and smiled as he ran his fingers over the carvings on it. Crowley had disappeared into what Aziraphale could assume would be his barren kitchen to get wine and glasses, or perhaps Malt Scotch. Scotch sounded good.

“Ah,” the ginger sounded from behind him as he re-entered the room, “who’s pretentious now, eh?” He hummed with a grin, “perhaps its me who is full of myself, and not miss Agnes Nutter.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale mused as he boldly pulled the throne out, “perhaps.” 

And he sat down in it.

If he could see behind him, he’d see Crowley making a face of confusion, nose scrunched up, “or perhaps it’s you that’s a touch vain.” He added on, confusion melting easily into a wry grin. He leaned against the edge of the desk and sat glasses down along with an old Chardonnay from a year he can’t bother to remember. 

“Perhaps I am, but if there were ever a time, I think it should be now.”

Crowley realized with a startle that this is one of the only times he has seen Aziraphale slouching sober. He’s leaned back in the grande chair, sinking into it as he watches the demon pour them drinks. It’s like he’s already drunk.

“You have every right to be vain. Self love is still a type of love, and that’s what your lots all about, i’nt it?” Crowley argues as he hands one of the glasses to his friend. 

“Ah but that’s where you’re wrong- pride is a deadly sin, it is fine to be loved, but to love yourself in excess is a crime. Twisted, isn’t it?”

Crowley purses his lips, pointedly ignoring the question, “don’t you though?” He asks, “you decorate your corporation in fine clothes, you preen your wings, don’t you love yourself, angel?”

There’s hesitation. And Crowley wants to choke something. He doesn’t know what, but whatever it is that enforces the hesitation. He wants to choke whatever that is. (It’s Gabriel.)

“I suppose I do.” Aziraphale hums with a sip from his drink, “do you love yourself?”

Crowley really should’ve seen that one coming, but he didn’t. It’s a moment of vulnerability when he smiles softly, “I’ve learned to.” He agrees, “over time.”

“I don’t know why you wouldn’t.” And the soft smile is gone, Aziraphale spoke so genuinely as he let his eyes glance down Crowleys frame. It wasn’t intimate by any means, just approving, “you’re all sorts of… of exotic. Perhaps that’s not the right word. You’re just very different from me.”

“Well I would think so, you’re-“

“An angel, yes.” He interrupts, “and you’re a demon. I wouldn’t ever want to be a demon, but it’s an interesting thing to think about.”

Crowley crosses one leg over the other from where he’s still leaning against his desk. “Wou’nt want to be an angel either, bunch of pricks, they are.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“Excluding you, angel.” The demon assures half-heartedly as he nursed his drink, “you’re just chaotic enough for me to be around. Nobody knows what you’re going to do next. Keepin me on my toes and whatnot.”

Aziraphale doesn’t sit up, but he furrows his brow, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“What’d’you mean ‘what’d I mean’? Aziraphale, you’re completely unpredictable. I think you’re going to zig, you zag.”

“I don’t zag” the angel defends, as if it were an offensive thing to be accused of.

“You do! You zag all over the damned place. ‘Oh angel, please, run off with me to the stars!’ I thought for sure you’d be all over that one.” Crowley gives as an example, “and then I come back a day later, and you’re about to kill a child with a gun,”

“It was… it was a moral argument.”

“Oh it t’wasnt and you know it.” The ginger admonishes, “and it’s not just recently either, I hardly expected you to get with that Wilde fellow.” 

“Oh I did not-“

“Either way, very chaotic, you are.” Crowley finished up, “‘sometimes wish I was like you, Ive grown predictable.”

“Hardly.” Aziraphale argues, “besides, if I’m as ‘chaotic’ as you say, perhaps there’s a reason heaven is coming for me.”

“‘Course there’s a bloody reason, Angel, you interrupted the apocalypse.”

“Do you really think for a second that we did anything to prevent the apocalypse, Crowley? We were completely incoherent.” He retorts, waving off the ginger. “Maybe if I were a bit more like you, Gabriel wouldn’t think so badly of me.”

That earns a rare belly laugh from the demon on the desk, “oh- oh right, of course,” he manages, “cause Gabriel would love if you were like this-“

“Oh hush up, you know what I-“

And then it dawns on him, and Aziraphle sits up with a startle. “I need to become more like you.” He breathes out, eyes wide as he stares at nothing on the wall, pale, as if he’s seen a ghost (or perhaps as if he were becoming one.)

“What? What are you on about?”

Aziraphale snaps to Crowley and grins, “oh- Crowley that’s what Agnes meant! I need to be you! Or- look like you- the Sides are surely going to try and get rid of us, and what, pray tell, would get rid of you, a demon?”

Crowley makes that face again, scrunched up as he brings his head back in thought, “the only thing that- oh-“ And his eyebrows raise to his hairline in realization. “Holy water.” He breathes out. 

“Holy water.” Aziraphale echos triumphantly, “And for me, hellfire.”

Crowley grins one of those demonic grins that he’d gotten so good at, and slowly he takes his glasses off. “You cheeky bastard.” He mutters in nothing but amazement towards the angel, who, for the life of him, can’t accept the comment as anything but a compliment as he grins back.

Crowley hands him his shaders, and Aziraphale slides them on.

They finish the whole bottle of Chardonnay.

————


	2. Hugging

It’s like that for a year. Well, 13 months, actually. But we will say a year just for the sake of convenience.

Holding hands started as something Aziraphale loathed. Perhaps not loathed, perhaps resented. Because he didn’t enjoy it, and he hated that he didn’t enjoy it, because he was touching Crowley, and being intimate with Crowley was something that he quite liked the idea of. And so, with much insistence that he was fine, they held hands. 

They held hands when Crowley was on his phone and Aziraphale was reading, both curled up on opposite sides of the love seat in Aziraphales flat above the (restored) bookshop. They held hands when they went to dinner, lunch, or breakfast. They held hands while Crowley was driving. They held hands at St. James Park, when they fed the ducks seeds (“not bread, Crowley, apparently that’s bad for them” Aziraphale had fretfully informed one evening).

it got easier. Remarkably so. To the point where Aziraphale no longer forced himself to enjoy it, and instead genuinely did. He even went as far as to initiate it nowadays. 

And while Crowley deeply and truly loved the feeling of holding hands (though he’d burn anyone to accuse him of such), he did crave… more.

It had been a year (roughly), and he still didn’t know what the hand holding meant. Of course they weren’t still friends, were they? They had to be more than that, but how much more? What did Aziraphale think?

Well, simply, Aziraphale thought this: this is quite nice, his hands fit in mine nicely, and I don’t want to stop doing this.

But of course, Crowley didn’t know that, nor did he know if the angel wanted more.

—————

It was in the park, around 11PM, and well past any time that a normal pair of middle aged men would be about in such a manner. Fortunately for us, these are not middle aged men, they are 6000 year old ethereal and occult men-shaped-beings. And they certainly aren’t normal.

If they were normal, middle aged men (who were, to say, together) they might be at home in front of a fire, watching the tele as they cuddled under a blanket, or perhaps they’d be snogging, either way, this is an elaborate way to say that Crowley and Aziraphale aren’t that. Again, they aren’t even men.

And while Crowley would very much like to be curled up under a blanket snogging with Aziraphale, that is not the truth. The truth is that they’re both settled on a well worn bench, opposite sides, but with their hands joined in the middle. Akin to kindergarteners who had just that morning decided they would get married on the slide at recess.

Even the ducks had left for their homes, ready to sleep for the night, and when Crowley looked over to the angel who he had strong feelings for (not love), Aziraphale was contentedly watching birds settle into their nests for the night. “Peculiar,” he hummed, “nesting habits.”

“Don’t angels nest?” Crowley countered, looking to the birds that Aziraphale had been referring to. “They used to, at least, back when I was up there. In clouds and such.”

“There aren’t many clouds in heaven nowadays, I’m afraid. Nothing soft to nest with up there besides downy feathers.” The angel explained, and if the ginger weren’t mistaken, with a touch of remorse. “Nobody has nested in quite a few millennia.” 

Crowley doesn’t remember a lot about heaven visually from before the fall, but he remembers the feeling of being in a nest, he remembers a hierarchy, he remembers the feeling of preening and being preened. 

He only remembers feeling things when it came to anything before he woke up in those dark pits, but he does remember feeling powerful. Important. He remembers feeling wanted, and he remembers being invited into so many nests he couldn’t make it to all of them.

It was a good tradition. Shame, really, that it fell with the angels.

“Shame.” He offers honestly, and Aziraphale simply nods, agreeing.

“I didn’t think demons knew about nesting.”

“‘Used to be an angel, angel. I don’t remember what it really was, but I remember it well enough.” Crowley lifts his leg up and rests his ankle on his knee, bouncing his leg lightly. 

“Oh, right. Sometimes I forget about that.”

And didn’t that seem like a common thing.

A dove landed into a nest alongside its mate, and Crowley watched as it’s wings fluttered in greeting and it offered a stick to add to the group. It made him remember giving, adding to already made nests. Perhaps angels and birds weren’t that different after all. 

The dove settled in alongside its partner, both nuzzling close over (what Crowley would assume to be) eggs. Both of them seemed content cuddled so close, and it caused a pang course through the heart shaped hole in the demons chest. Aziraphale smiled so broadly that his eyes wrinkled in the delightful way that they do. “Would you look at that,” he hummed approvingly at the birds, “I can feel the love, it’s absolutely fascinating how two small creatures can be so ignorant to their surroundings. All they want to do is be close and warm, how lovely, indeed.”

But Crowley couldn’t look at the birds, he just stared at the ever-oblivious Aziraphale dotingly and pretended that the love that the angel felt wasn’t coming right from him. “Indeed.” He agreed. 

He briefly wanted to vomit because he realized how he was jealous of a bird and it’s mate.

———

The next time they saw each other, after they finally split up and went to their respective homes for the night, was two days later. 

Crowley had, over months, brought plants to the bookshop, just as Aziraphale had brought books to his flat. It was a mutual understanding of their no longer forbidden conspiratory tendencies. Simply, it was how they showed their affection.

Now, and if anybody asked he’d deny it, Crowley had a pot buckled into the passenger seat of the Bentley (He’d deny buckling it in, not the existence of it, but the idea that he actually cared for the things). His nails, sharp and black, tapped impatiently on the steering wheel whilst he was in the thick of London rush hour traffic. That was one downside to no longer being on the Down Side; miracles, demonic or otherwise. They were draining now. It used to be that he very rarely got tired from use of miracles, but since being figuratively cut off, they made his joints exhausted, they made his head foggy, and all that made him angry while stuck in traffic.

A normal Bentley (Mark VI, 1947) did not have a threatening horn. It was like a beep on a slightly agitated microwave that you’d just tried to cook lasagna in; Mildly annoyed. Crowleys Bentley wasn’t normal. It played Beethoven’s Classics: the Greatest Of Queen, It had only ever been filled with diesel once, and for the duration of one (shameful) summer, it had had flame decals on the window (and no, the irony was not lost on Crowley). In the same sense that it was demonically abnormal everywhere else, it also did not have a normal honk, and when Crowley slammed his hand against the center of the steering wheel, it bellowed into central London the same noise of an angry demon smiting whatever was inconveniencing it.

So, it sounded just like every other car that was currently honking, basically.

He glanced to the Spider Plant next to him, it was lush and nearly sprouting, nestled firmly in a hanging planter. Crowley had commented last time he’d been in a certain cozy bookshop that a hanging plant would look quite nice in the front window, and there had been no objections. spider plants can get quite big, but if this one in particular knew what was good for it, it would stay just the perfect size for where it was meant to be. He sneered at it in annoyance, and the leaves seemed to shrink in lightly; cowering.

That made him grin lightly and he looked back to the road, slugging along when he could.

—-

Meanwhile, an angel walked the sidewalk, oblivious to the spontaneous visit from his partner (... not entirely platonic) that he would surely endure. He had two bags, a brown paper one with various fruits and baked goods in it that he’d purchased at a farmers market but an hour prior, and a reusable fabric one (he saved the world once (sort of) and wasn’t about to kill it with plastic) that held a new, thick fleece blanket. It was a dark, rich chocolate brown, and Aziraphale saw it and quickly decided it would look good over the back of his lounge chair, or perhaps the love seat.

He was walking home in the cold morning, winter quickly approaching SoHo, when a small bird decided to tweet at him from a nook on the outside of his bookshop. He paused and glanced around to try and pinpoint the sound of the chirp. Pigeons were bold in Europe, but it sounded less like a pigeon and more like a songbird, which was slightly more uncommon, especially in urban areas. Azirapahle simply wanted to make sure the poor thing wouldn’t get trampled.

He smiled though when he looked up, and under the lip of the design in the building, there was a small nest, and a smaller bird looking back at him. The angel offered a small dip of his head in greeting, and a welcoming “hello there, my dear.” 

The nest was only a few inches above Aziraphales height, but from where the bird peeked out, he could see it cock it’s head and chirp back, greeting him in turn. The angel briefly thought of bringing it inside for the winter, it was going to get quite chilly after all, but decided against it. Instead, he glanced around, smiling awkwardly at a passerby as he set down his bags for a moment on the sidewalk. The blond went up onto his tippy toes, ignoring weird looks from strangers who paid the crazy bookkeeper little mind, and he made eye level with one of God’s creations. There were eggs, “oh aren’t you just lovely,” he crooned, resting his hand on the building for balance, “albeit a bit late, I’m afraid, but no worries. As long as you nest here, you will be safe, and you will be warm.

The angel (and he was still an angel, deep down) cupped his hands around his mouth and blew gently into the nest, warming it. The warmth would remain, as he promised, all the way until spring. “There,” he hummed with a smile as the bird nestled down comfortably over her eggs, “nice and cozy. Nothing like a minor miracle to get the day started” 

“Angel!” Ah Yes, Crowley. “What the hell are you lookin at? You don’t have to peek through windows you know, this is your shop.”

Aziraphale dropped down to his flat feet with a smile of satisfaction, and Crowley groaned. “Oh you’re being all holy and whatnot again, ‘rn’t ya?” The ginger griped, “you always have that stupid smile whenever you help someone- what was it now? A kid dropped their ice cream? An old lady crossed the street?”

“A bird nestled in late, my dear. I’m simply providing shelter.”

Crowley shifted his weight as he leaned back against his parked Bentley, crossing his arms over his chest. He sniffled, nose runny in the cold, “disgusting.” He offered, but it was half-hearted, and Aziraphale knew that if nobody had been watching, Crowley would’ve done the exact same thing.

Aziraphale picked up his things and walked passed the Bentley to his shop doors, “stopping by for any particular reason?”

“Wha-? I can’t just come for a visit, then?” Crowley shot back.

“Of course you can, it was simply a question.” 

Crowley shifted again, almost uncomfortably as his shoulders lifted. He looked very much like a disgruntled toddler, “well then. I came to visit.” He decided, “and I brought something.”

Aziraphale wouldn’t hear the demon as he turned and leaned into the open car window, hissing quietly for the spider plant to behave. He smiled though as Crowley emerged with a gorgeous plant, “oh dear, she’s lovely!” The blond coo’ed as he opened the door for his counterpart. Crowley entered, hands both full of planter. “I think she looks quite like an Emery, don’t you?”

“Whatever, Angel.” The demon grumbled as he came in and set the newly dubbed ‘her’ down on the coffee table. He linked the chains into the hoops on the planter, and lifted her up, getting to work on hanging her. 

Aziraphale had a habit of naming all of the plants that Crowley brought over, and while the demon pretended to find it annoying, it made his heart ache in adoration. He couldn’t even find it in himself to care that Aziraphale undid all of the cruelty he’d bestowed upon the greenery with soft encouragement and compliments. It had started out with Oscar the Cactus, then turned to William the Venus Fly Trap, then Charles the Bonzai Tree, and so on until Aziraphale ran out of beloved authors. Then it turned into him naming them whatever he deemed suited them best. 

Aziraphale left to fetch the kettle, putting it on as Crowley began and finished hanging the spider plant; Emery; in the window.

Once Emery was settled, the demon, who had no sense of personal boundaries (an overstatement), dug through the angels abandoned bags, finding fruits and biscuits (he had bought brownies as well, to Crowleys delight, he quite liked brownies). Once he deemed that bag boring, he moved onto the other one, and tugged out a blanket that was sinfully soft.

Crowley made a noise of agreeance to absolutely no one, a simple “mhmm.” As he decided that he liked the blanket, and that he was commandeering it.

That wasn’t uncommon though, and Crowley pulled the blanket up and over his head, wrapping it around his shoulders before standing (leaving the other contents from the days shopping scattered on the floor where he’d scavenged them) and heading to the couch. He made a few more noises into the silence of the room as he cuddled into the corner of the chesterfield, knees drawing up to his chest as he kicked his shoes off. Last to go was the sunglasses, but they did go, and they got set somewhere safe beside him.

The absolute gremlin.

Luckily, Aziraphale was used to such acts, and even smiled upon seeing Crowley who had made himself so comfortably at home. He simply set the tea tray down, picked up the fruits and sweets, brought them to the kitchen, and returned. He came back with two brownies on a plate, offering it to Crowley silently, who took one and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. He was a snake; eat fast, savour later.

Aziraphale just exhaled quickly through his nose in amusement before settling beside him, grabbing a book on the way down.

He offered his hand, and Crowley took it without hesitation.

———

Crowley didn’t know when he fell asleep, or how. He’d gotten prone to spontaneous naps now that he could actually get tired (don’t be mistaken, he could still go days to weeks without sleeping, but dependant on how many miracles he performed, it would tire him out eventually), but he still wasn’t used to Aziraphale needing sleep too.

The angels book was about to slip out of his lap as he rested, body slumped over lightly, leaning against Crowley.

And hello.

That was new.

The demon was still curled in a ball, but the angel didn’t seem to mind as he leaned against him, using him as a makeshift pillow. Crowley glanced outside from under the edge of his blanket, it was still daytime, which meant it had only been a few hours.

Otherwise though, the demon remained reluctant to move. This was insane! This was more physical contact than he’d ever gotten from his angel!

His eyes were wide, and to an outsider his pupils were huge as he looked down. Partially due to being under the semi-darkness of the blanket, but partially also due to him staring, startled, at something that he had intense feelings for (not love).

Still, it felt wrong. It felt… dirty. And not in an intimate way, moreso in a way that taking a cookie secretly felt. “Damn it.” He hissed quietly, brow furrowing at himself. Holding hands had taken his angel so long, and surely Aziraphale would be uncomfortable if he were conscious. It  
was like Eve and the apple tree, but Crowley wouldn’t give into temptation, not like she did. 

“Angel,” he muttered, to no avail. Crowley lifted a hand up, awkwardly under the weight of Aziraphale against his arm. He carefully tapped the beings knee, “‘ziraphale” the longer word was a bit slurred with sleep, but it caused the blond to stir. 

Only lightly though, and he made a small “ngh?” Noise as he turned his face to tuck a bit more against Crowley. His face contorted as he woke, like a fussy toddler from a nap. His face ended up shoved into the blanket that was around Crowley, clearly disagreeing with the daylight against his sleep-sensitive eyes.

And then the angel tensed, and Crowley did his damnedest not to follow suit. Slowly, and as if the situation were glass, Aziraphale pushed himself up. His whole face was bright red, and his shoulders were taught, eyes wide. Crowley could almost hear the blood pumping quickly through the angels body in panic, and he reacted as only a snake would.

He leaned forward and wrapped himself around Aziraphale. When prey panics, snakes wrap tighter, slowing their heart rate with compression until they manage to choke them out. Luckily, Crowley did not want to eat Aziraphale, nor did he want to choke him out, he just wanted him to calm down.

The angel remained stiff in his hold, and like this the demon could, in fact, feel the heartbeat against him, could hear the shallow breathing as he tucked his face into the blonds shoulder.

“It’s alright, Aziraphale.” And for a millisecond he thought the angel might believe him as he felt hands lower a bit. He hadn’t realized they’d been up, but they had, defensively, and now they settled (tensely) on Crowleys sides. “You’re alright, it’ss jussst me.” and what a laugh that was; its just me, a demon, wrapping around you tightly, and most definitely not trying to kill you. how believable. except the fact that it was, to Aziraphale at least, when to anyone else it might not be.

The angel inhaled deeply and his hands seemed to relax a bit more, sliding to his partners (you know the drill) back, more in a hug than the hold he’d been in before. He didn’t completely reciprocate though, and Crowley didn’t expect him to.

When Aziraphale, only a minute later, fussed and pushed the demon off, Crowley relented. He knew, from experience with the hand holding, that it would take time. Aziraphale looked calmer, not much, but a little bit. “I… I think I’d like to be alone for the night.” The angel breathed out.

Crowley only smiled, he wasn’t being kicked out and he knew it. Aziraphale just needed processing time, “of course angel, I’ll get my shoes.” He wasn’t going too fast, it’s just that the blond was a little bit slow, and needed time to catch up.

They heard a chirp from outside the window, both looked to see a bird, and a nightingale sang outside a cozy bookshop. (Which was definitely not a nest.) 

Crowley took the blanket.

————-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i dont have the next chapter started so it may be a while but i dont have the self control to pace how i post these :')

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! hopefully i wont abandon this :')


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